Love Never Dies
by Pandora's Teapot
Summary: In the hours following the death of Christine, the Phantom copes with his anguish and ponders the events that lead to her death with a pang of guilt and conscience searching. Please note: I make it a policy to read stories by those who review me, so please review!


**What Little We Deserve.**

Mary-Charlotte Judge.

The melody was as crimson as the swirling bloody water that danced its ballet around the ballroom of the basin drain. He hummed the notes softly through heaving sobs as one hand swept over another, washing the blood from them. Wash it all away…just like Meg had done with the rising dawn of each and every morning of those years that he had been oblivious to her suffering and the cruel ambitions of her mother. The salty water had no such effect on him, the agony that stabbed relentlessly at his heart only tightening its grasp as the blood slid from his marred flesh. It was a romantic notion to the composer in him: the last essence of Christine Daae, his angel of music, falling from his fingertips forever. He leaned against the basin as a merciless wave of anguish engulfed him with the thought. She had confessed that she'd have followed anywhere he led, how he longed now to follow her into death.

Indeed, he had teetered on the pier edge in the moments after Christine had drawn her last gasping breath, the welcoming oblivion of the dark ocean singing to him, offering release from a life of torment and sorrow that only her glimmering song had made briefly bearable. It had never been about the flesh, he knew that the moment he had graciously recoiled from the weeping child and passed Christine's lifeless body over to Raoul. They had glanced at one another, sworn enemies and competitors for her love, with a painful understanding. It was no meagre experience to love Christine Daae, and though Raoul had indeed loved her, it had been clear to them both when he looked into the devastated eyes of his adversary that it had never been enough. As the masked apparition of a man staggered to the rickety edge of the pier and gazed with tear filled eyes into the grey absolution below, Raoul had looked on sadly, knowing that his love for Christine had never outweighed the love he held for his own life. Though Raoul had been too proud to confess it outright, he had made it clear enough when he left Coney Island and Gustave this very night without challenge.

"I wouldn't have followed her," Raoul had said to the Phantom, placing the small hand of Christine's beloved child into the black glove that hid his blood-stained hand, "and now neither can you."

Gustave. Such a perfect boy, beautiful and yet so beguilingly strange! He had felt his grip on the pier railings loosen, his eyes closing as he gave himself to the cool relief of an ocean tomb. One by one the long, slender fingers that effortlessly felt their way over organ keys to create ethereal melodies had relaxed, preparing to let go and silence his music forever. Then he felt the gentle but desperate touch of the child's hand, and his fingers clenched the railing again. He came back…Gustave had come back.

The Phantom dried his hands, stopping to meet his own dark eyes in the mirror. Meg's words haunted him again – it was indeed hard to keep your conscience clean on Coney Island. He thought about those terrifying moments when Meg had stood between him and his son, dangling Gustave dangerously close to that alluring ocean drop. Oh god, that poor girl. He could barely think of it, let alone harbour a rage towards her. All of those years, and he had never known how Madame Giry had secured the means to build Phantasma. He clenched his fist as he thought of sweet, sheepish Meg, the prima ballerina of the Opera Populaire, passed from bed to bed as though she couldn't have secured the funds with her true talents as he had always thought…god, if he had known! He could not blame Meg for being envious of Christine, and her death had been an accident…hadn't it? He had reached for the gun that Meg brandished; they had both laid their hands on it. She had aimed at Christine…hadn't she?

Desperately, he tried to banish the thoughts from his mind. Reaching for a clean pair of gloves and slipping them over his fingers and hands, he inhaled deeply before letting out a long, slow sigh.

"Oh Christine," he whispered through his stifling tears, "my Christine – lost and gone."

But she wasn't lost, not entirely. There was still Gustave, their son. The Phantom recalled that moment when Gustave had returned to the pier to lay at the feet of his lifeless mother. It seemed that every man, even the youngest, in Christine's life was destined to be lost without her. Certain that Gustave would sooner endure the cage of Raoul's ignorance than love the monstrous man that was truly his father, he turned away to approach his doom alone and in silence.

But Gustave had indeed come back.

Their eyes locked and he swam in the bright blue beauty his son had inherited from Christine. The embrace of the child took him by surprise, so light and warm against his chest, the tiny arms encompassing him with a simple, silent acceptance. He felt the softness of sweet-smelling hair against his unmasked cheek, stroking it with uncertain fingers still stained with Christine's blood. The Phantom gasped as Gustave reached slowly for his mask, turning slightly with a cautious flinch. But something in the child's manner and the sorrowful pleading reflected in his eyes reassured him, asking gently to be allowed to share his grief with the strange and frightening magician of Coney Island. Gustave had lifted the mask from the Phantom's face and beheld the same countenance that he had run from the night before. His eyes moved over the disfigured face slowly, examining each flaw one by one, followed by the gentle touch of his fingers. There was no fear in his expression this time as, piece by piece, the face of the Phantom came together and Gustave realised that beneath the mangled surface was a father and friend who could share not only the heartbreak and loneliness he now felt, but also the intense freedom of his spirit. He could see what Christine had eventually seen beneath the mask.

Eventually.

In his mind, the flow of thoughts stumbled resentfully over that word. She had hurt and humiliated him years ago at the Opera, and though it would have been so much easier to despise her for her choices, he simply couldn't. But his love was greater than his own esteem. Even when she had come back to him in Paris, decided and determined to be at his side, he could not forget how she had reviled him and betrayed him so publicly before retreating to Raoul. Yes, he loved her and yes, he had wanted to stay. But he did not trust her to continue to do the same. And so the Phantom had left her to the fate she had chosen, for ten long years, feigning his own death simply to make it easier for her.

Meg had aimed the gun…not at Christine, but at him. It had been like slow motion, an aria where the music had quivered and trembled as the maddened heroine, victim of a tug-of-war between the hero and the villain, raised her hand in desperation to deliver the final blow. He had seen the whole thing before it had even played out, invisible to his conscious mind, but there nonetheless. He had taken the gun where Meg grasped it and…

No.

It had taken him by surprise when Christine chose him over Raoul. He knew she would sing, of that there had never been a doubt. But the way she had looked at her husband as she sang, with resolve and apologetic confession in one, that had not been expected at all. For a moment, he had been breathless as he realised what had happened. All he had wanted was for her to sing and perhaps to forgive him for his trespasses against her, or at most to face Raoul in confrontation and open her eyes to the shameful way her husband treated her, bargaining and gambling with their very marriage. He wanted her to see what she deserved: him, not his face. But as Raoul turned away and retreated into the backstage shadows of Phantasma and Christine's voice lifted with an exhilarating freedom, he knew that she had chosen to be with him…despite everything.

But for how long?

Until the newspapers hounded her as to her sudden, permanent presence in America? Or at Coney Island no less? Until they poked and prodded with their questioning, delving into her private affairs? Until the Vicomte de Chagny married again, forcing her divorce into the public light? Or perhaps, until she was seen with him? Or worse – if they were to see beneath the mask…it was only a matter of time. He had always known that. She had given her love and she would take it away, just as she had done before, only this time Raoul would not be there to accommodate her. Had he taken the gun where Meg grasped it, her finger slowly, steadily, unconsciously squeezing more and more dangerously on the trigger, and without thinking pushed her aim to one side? The side where Christine stood just a few paces behind him? Could he have done such a thing to stop her from ever hurting him again, even unconsciously?

He leant against the wall, his mind and emotions in torment. They raged and thundered at him, belting against his soul like the climax of a brutal symphony. He knew he was not an easy man to trust, nor was he particularly trusting. But he knew in his heart that he'd endure the hurt and pain of one hundred of his own lifetimes before he ever would or could hurt his Christine. She had sung for him again, chosen him over Raoul, entrusted him with her beloved child. Though it had terrified him that she was at last his, that he of all men could have the love of a beautiful woman and a son of his own, he was certain that he had trusted her decision. He had given her leave to go without repercussion if she so wished, nothing held her at his side except for her own desire to be there.

With a sigh of relief bursting from behind his deep, heaving sobs, he was freed from the delusional guilt that had plagued him all of this terrible night. He had to feel some guilt, he reminded himself, for he had not been able to save her. But he knew now that his life hadn't been denied everything of love and human affection as he had been so certain it would play out to be. He had Phantasma. He had Gustave, and in time he would forgive Meg and free her from her sorrow as well. They two – Gustave and Meg Giry - would share everything of Christine Daae and the Angel of Music. But most importantly, Christine had given the Phantom of the Opera her final moments and her heart in the end, she had given what she could give: the love that he deserved, a love that never dies.


End file.
